


Prison Break

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a lot of sexual healing (in a bathtub), a cameo's worth of giant slug, and oodles of emo porn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prison Break

**Author's Note:**

> This is a late birthday fic for [](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/profile)[**deirdre_c**](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/). It would be nice if I could say it was late because of the LJ troubles, but my record suggests it would have been even later if being cut off from reading hadn't caused me to spend more time writing. Its tardiness in no way reflects on the wonderfulness of its recipient, or the sincerity of my wish that she enjoy many happy returns of the day.
> 
> Spoilers through 6.17.

So they’re in this abandoned cabin in scenic Moose River, ME, and they’ve just eliminated a pack of Adlets. Slightly mangy Adlets, and “pack” may be an exaggeration when there were only three of them, but still. Saving people, hunting things. It was a good evening. And it’s turning into a fucking fantastic night.

There’s a foam mattress with a torn floral cover on the cabin floor. Dean had had doubts about contact with it, but he’s overcome them. Sam threw their blanket over it, for one thing. It’s not as comfortable as sheets but much less disturbing than the mattress. And then there’s the other part where Sam’s mouth is bobbing up and down on Dean’s dick and his finger is up Dean’s ass and his thumb is twirling over Dean’s balls in a glidey, lubed-up swirl. A man could be excused for not being able to keep his mind on mold and mystery stains and insect life while that’s going on.

Dean thought he’d been properly grateful that Sam’s all coordinated and shit earlier, when they were killing the Adlets. But it’s nothing to how grateful he is now. Sam’s pretty into it, too, face red and sweaty and eyes glazed and narrowed to slits. His hips are jerking and pistoning into the blanket – and what Sam is planning to cover the blanket with if he jizzes all over it Dean doesn’t know, they need the sleeping bag on top of them -- while he slurps and hums and rubs over Dean’s prostate. Dean clutches at Sam’s hair (it’s times like this hold Dean back from just knocking Sam out and giving him a haircut while he’s unconscious) and comes with an embarrassing scream.

In Dean’s head, here’s what comes next: Sam will crawl up the bed to kiss him. His mouth will be messy with spit and bitter with come, the sweat and heat will pour off him, and he’ll be _there_ , the presence he always is intensified like sun through a magnifying glass. His cock will butt at Dean’s thigh and he’ll keen, desperate and demanding, and even though Dean won’t be ready to move for, like, a week, he’ll reach down. Sam’s teeth will be in Dean’s shoulder when he comes but Dean will still be able to recognize his name in the movement of Sam’s lips against his skin.

Except that isn’t what happens. Sam twists away and rolls on his side, his back to Dean. His elbow jerks, four pulls, and then he makes the exact sound he’d made that time, years ago, when he’d slammed the Impala’s trunk down on his hand. Small and choked off, a noise Dean hadn’t even registered till he replayed the scene in his head later. Two hours and a hundred plus miles later, to be precise, when Sam had finally copped to three broken fingers.

When Sam comes back to bed after cleaning up his expression is subdued and withdrawn. Almost as blank as Robo Sam, but at least this Sam falls asleep the instant he lies down. It’s more than can be said for Dean.

So that’s when Dean starts to worry about their sex life. Which, don’t get him wrong, he does not have complaints. Sam picked up tips from the best, after all. Sometimes when he’s got Dean swearing and begging and wrenching the headboard out of the wall (management charged them for it, bastards, never as appreciative of the absence of blood and bodies as they should be) Dean feels a pulse of the same pride gets to him when Sam nails a tricky shot in the dark, takes a week’s money at pool, or, you know, puts Lucifer in a cage. But there’s something missing. Or someone. Some Sam.

And it’s not just sex. Sam walks half a step behind now, lets Dean do the talking, sticks to him close as a limpet and about as revealing. It’s a bit freaky, this tamped down Sam. Seems Dean has gotten greedy. He has Sam back, and you’d better believe he’s grateful, every eyeroll and latte and even this quietly supportive thing Sam’s started pulling on him. But Dean wants more. He’s still missing his brother. Maybe even more now, since he’s started really looking, since he's got to thinking about parts of Sam that aren’t there.

The night after they bury Rufus Sam’s a bit drunk. Dean’s drunker. He can feel Sam’s disapproving concern, and it’s warm and familiar, does more to ease raw, cold loss than the whiskey’s doing. Dean sets the bottle down, walks to where Sam is propped against the wall, beer dangling loose in his hand, staring out the dark window. His wrists are still marked by the rope they’d tied him with, that hadn’t prevented a damn thing.

Dean stands in front of him. “Hey,” he says.

Sam looks at him.

“You OK?” he asks. His voice is barely slurred.

“Peachy,” says Dean.

“You know it wasn’t your fault,” Sam says, “Gwen, Rufus. You couldn’t have done anything.”

Dean does know, actually. He’s gotten used to the thing where nothing they can do makes a difference. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, though, or have Sam go all quietly supportive. He pulls Sam’s mouth down to his.

Sam’s hand comes up against his back. Quietly supportive. Fuck this shit. Dean grabs the nape of Sam’s neck, holding him in place, bites at his lower lip, sucks Sam’s tongue into his mouth, pressing against him, pulling at his shoulder like he can draw Sam out of wherever he is and into Dean.

For a moment Sam goes with it. His hand curves and tightens at Dean’s waist, and his eyes shut while he opens his mouth to let Dean lick in. When Dean noses at the corner of his jaw, begins to nip his way down his neck, Dean can feel it, something in Sam starting to shift and give, a guard going down. The hand stroking Dean’s back is shaking.

Then Sam says, “Don’t,” and pushes Dean away. Dean backs off. Sam rinses out his beer bottle, sets it neatly to drain, walks out of the kitchen without another word. Dean hears his footsteps retreating up the stairs to the bedroom, perfectly steady.

He thinks of Sam’s face in the cemetery, his own grandiose little speech. The way Sam’s forehead knit, like it was only half comprehensible, like translating forgiveness into the terms he lives by now would take grammars and dictionaries and approximations and maybe it couldn’t be done, maybe the corresponding concepts don’t exist.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and bruises his knuckles against Bobby’s kitchen doorframe. It won’t wake Bobby. He’s sleeping the sleep of the passed out in the downstairs bed. Dean’s sick of this. Waiting for Sam to make up his mind to come back the rest of the way. And Sam’s holding back, because he’s fucking terrified. Sam, who marched out to say Yes to Lucifer and jump into hell like it was matter of course, just something that had to be done, fixing what he broke. _Now_ he’s running scared.

Oh yeah, Dean’s figured that out. Death’s intrepid detective solved this case, even if he’s still got no clue what’s up with the souls. Dean’s specialty always was the case of the Sam.

It’s not the Wall. The Wall coming down isn’t something Dean wants to think of, which means he does, pretty much constantly. And Sam’s afraid of that, too. He’s not an idiot. But Dean’s willing to bet Sam’s more worried that Sam will crack than that the Wall will. And not because if he cracks he’ll be broken. No, Sam’s got some other structure on his mind. Something he built himself and guards with Samlike thoroughness. Nothing in there’s getting out. None of the missing are going to show up on Dean’s doorstep, the Sams who’ve been put away there over the years.

There are bound to be casualties, the lives they lead. Not like there aren’t Deans among the missing in action. Dean doesn’t doubt some of the Sams are gone for good, too. The Sam who shopped for a ring for Jess, maybe, the Sam who glued Dean’s beer bottle to his hand. But Dean’s guessing there’s more who just aren’t allowed to come back. Sams in exile, working out bits of his everlasting penance. Sams locked down like prisoners of state because Sam thinks if he lets them up for a moment they’ll run amok and drain demons and burn down the world and hurt Dean. Sam needs a sharp talking to from Amnesty International or Geneva or something, is what he needs, but instead he’s got Dean. No one but Dean’s going to plan this jailbreak.

He’s not sure how he’s going to go about it. God knows he’s fucked it up so far. But there’s never been a Sam that Dean will give up on getting back.

He mulls the thing over in the back of his mind while they visit some crazy Titanic alternate timeline, courtesy of that obnoxious maniac Balthazar. He puzzles at it through a routine salt and burn, glances sidelong at Sam while they drive through deep greens towards Alabama. Towards, it turns out, an honest to God giant slug.

It’s not exactly a dangerous job. Slugs move slow. But it takes a shitton of salt to kill one that’s the size of a cow, and it doesn’t die before it’s knocked Sam down and slimed his hair. Sam takes it badly. He may be worryingly subdued these days, but he’s still got strong feelings when it comes to his hair.

“Dude, it was almost heroic,” says Dean. “Rinse.”

Sam ducks under the shower, which is getting cold. They’d bought a whole bottle of shampoo. The complimentary motel size wasn’t going to cut it.

“It was a slug,” Sam says. “It oozed. We salted it. It melted. I’m not seeing the heroism.”

“It tried to take your hair down with it,” Dean explains, lathering briskly. “At the end of its evil, sluggy life it chose to turn to good, to die battling some greater menace. Like when Darth Vader took on the Emperor. OK, rinse one more time. I think that does it.”

Sam sticks his head back into the now freezing spray and gives Dean a death glare. His deslimed hair clings in sleek dark ribbons around his face. Twin jolts of recognition and panic shake Dean. Sam’s back. Sam’s about to slip away. Dean reaches out instinctively to grab him. Sam’s skin is cold and pliant under the beading of water. Dean grips his shoulder, as though Sam is about to bolt out of the motel dripping and naked, and reaches his other hand to turn off the shower. Sam doesn’t stir, just waits, kneeling in the bathtub, cock slack in its nest of crinkly damp hair, eyes following Dean’s hand on its path to and from the faucet. Dean’s watching it too, like it’s someone else’s, watching it come to rest along the side of Sam’s skull, feeling the familiar bumps and curves under the thick wet hair. There were those dudes who claimed to read people by their skulls. Phrenologists, that’s it.

Sam leans over the edge of the bathtub, to get up or grab a towel or whatever, but Dean shakes his head. He climbs into the tub instead, keeping his hold on Sam’s shoulder. Water soaks the knees of his jeans as soon as he kneels in front of Sam. He presses Sam down till his shoulderblades are against the back of the tub, his legs splayed awkwardly around Dean. Dean has both hands on Sam’s arms now, holding him in place. He leans forward over him. Sam’s breath is coming faster, his skin warming under Dean’s hands. Dean lightens his grip deliberately, keeping his hands in place, looks into Sam’s eyes, asking permission.

And this will be it, of course. This will be where Sam asks Dean to stop, or where he takes control, that gently aggressive, maddeningly evasive Sam of the past couple months, who gives Dean orgasms like Fourth of July fireworks and keeps a safe, guilty distance. Dean’s dick gives a Pavlovian twitch at the thought of orgasms and Sam fucking him, but that isn’t the program, dammit, this isn’t all about Dean’s dick getting off in the readiest way that offers. This is a jailbreak.

Dean’s hands move up and down Sam’s biceps. Saying it for him. _Please_ and _Sam_ and _let it happen, let me get you back_. Sam’s breath catches, a tiny, apprehensive tell. Then he nods. Lets his eyes close and turns his head a little aside, so Dean can see the pulse leaping against his skin.

Dean lowers himself over Sam’s chest, elbows braced awkwardly against the sides of the tub. Sam’s legs fall as far open as they can, knee on the wall side knocking tile. Sam really has to do something about the length of his limbs. Dean hadn’t exactly planned on doing jailbreak sex in the bathtub. He sets his mouth on that exposed pulse point and bites down. Sam jerks under him with a muffled cry, red flushing his face and spreading down his chest. Dean holds him still, presses kisses along his throat, the corner of his jaw, the notch of his collarbone, finally, finally his lips.

Sam doesn’t pull back this time, doesn’t stiffen when Dean pulls at his hair to angle his mouth right, sealing it with is own, tangling their tongues. _Sam, Sam_ and _Dean, Dean_ , speech without any sounds beyond small, wet noises, but still the same, lips and tongues and teeth and palates forming the words they were made for, the only complete sentence in their language.

Dean gets lost in it, almost oblivious to his dick straining and throbbing painfully, trapped in chafing fabric. Sam’s thigh is trying to grip at his so he can rub up against Dean’s weight pinning him down. It’s only when Sam’s elbow knocks the tiny motel bottle of conditioner to the floor that the small clatter rouses Dean enough to pull away and drag his damp-blotched t-shirt over his head, shuck his jeans and boxers with some undignified wriggling. His dick springs free, bobbing up towards his belly.

Sam has stayed sprawled against the sloping back of the tub as though Dean’s still holding him there. His lips are swollen, his own dick stiff and dark, swelling a little more under Dean’s gaze as Dean’s erection brushes Sam’s knee. The skin of Sam’s belly and inner thighs is creased red from the denim of Dean’s jeans, and there’s a small, bruised circle where the metal button dug in. Dean runs a thumb over it apologetically, and clear precome beads at the slit of Sam’s cock.

At Sam’s startled moan Dean moves his thumb in a spiral, wider and wider, till it brushes thinner, hotter skin and the moan breaks off in a gasp. Dean catches the moisture from Sam’s slit, barely grazing flesh, and brings his thumb to Sam’s lips. Holds it a millimeter away, waiting, because this move has to be Sam’s.

There’s a stretched, fraught moment while Sam watches Dean’s face, eyes wary, dark with lust. Then Sam’s tongue swipes out and gathers his own salt. Acquiescence. Dean lets the breath he was holding go. Sam’s in. The rest of this is on Dean. Time to take his brother apart. And Dean still knows how to do that, if Sam will let him.

He kisses him once more, light and careful, strokes the corner of his mouth, trails down jaw and neck and chest to pinch at a nipple. Sam gasps, and Dean lays a finger on his lips to quiet him. He twists the nipple till Sam is writhing, throat arching back, hands scrabbling at Dean. That’s not on. Sam is taking this, taking what Dean gives him till keys begin turning in rusted locks and hinges groan and whatever dreary cinderblocks Sam’s building his dungeons out of bulge out of their concrete and topple.

Dean catches both Sam’s wrists, pinions them above his head, and hisses “Still!” before he drops his mouth to the nipple he was tormenting. For a while he licks and sucks, listening to the thud of Sam’s heart and his dragging, turned-on breath. Then he bites down, and Sam’s wrists strain against Dean’s grip in time with his wrenched moans. Dean sets a rhythm and Sam’s movements and cries settle to it, no longer trying to break away.

Dean’s leaking, painfully hard. It’s been so long since he’s had Sam like this, since Sam has let him, since he’s let himself. He’s a little afraid, to be honest. You’d think, maybe, if Dean had issues with being vulnerable and shit, it would be about being fucked, but it never has been. Sam under him, letting him in, Sam handing him control, that’s what cracks Dean’s heart out of his chest, like an egg breaking into a frying pan. (Yeah, so _poet_ isn’t among the second careers Dean’s considering on the off-chance his current job doesn’t kill him). But he wants this. Fuck, he wants it, he wants it as much as Sam needs it. He puts his mouth to Sam’s ear.

“You ready, Sammy?” he asks, “Gonna be good and hold still while I finger you open and fuck you?” Sam nods hotly against his shoulder, doesn’t speak. Dean presses a kiss to the sweaty hair at his temple.

“I think I’d better tie you, just to be sure,” he says. “You’re right there on the edge, aren’t you? Ready to come. But we’ve got a ways to go yet before that happens. Think you might find it easier not to speed things along any if I lead you not into temptation here.”

There’s nothing to hand but towels, but that’s OK. Sam wants to give in now, they don’t need anything but a symbolic gesture. Dean binds his wrists together with a handtowel, then loops one of the bathtowels over the rack above the tub and tethers it to Sam’s knotted wrists so his hands are stretched over his head. Sam pulls gently at the knots, gives a small, satisfied moan when they don’t give.

Dean grabs the conditioner where it’s rolling around on the floor and settles between Sam’s legs. He hooks one over the edge of the tub, angling so it will be just on the edge of painful, and squirts conditioner onto his fingers, wrinkling his nose at the scent. This is going to be a disgustingly floral fuck. Oh well. Dean’s eyes are holding Sam’s as his finger breaches Sam’s entrance, and he sees the first crack, the first fissure of utter need.

For a moment Sam tenses all over, rebellious. The towel rack gives a warning squeak but holds. Dean drops his eyes from Sam’s face, giving him that bit of privacy, watches Sam’s hole stretch around his finger instead. His other hand strokes over the delicate skin in the hollows of Sam’s inner thighs, and Sam gradually unclenches. When Dean adds the second finger, crooks it to find Sam’s prostate, he hears a hitch in Sam’s breath, then another. A hot droplet splashes on Sam’s chest and trickles down. Dean kisses away the salt, but he doesn’t look up. Wouldn’t look up for the world. He adds a third finger. Sam’s rotating his hips now in small, needy circles, fucking himself on Dean’s fingers, but he can’t move too much without dislodging his knotted hands, and he’s not going to do that.

“Dean,” he says, and his voice is so choked Dean hardly recognizes it.

“Hey, it’s OK, it’s OK,” says Dean, “You’re doing good. Doing real good. Look at you, Sam. Like a fucking baseball bat. Don’t know why I ever let you shove that thing into me. But this time it’s me in you, you just have to let me in. Not much longer now, you don’t have to hold on much longer. I think you’re ready, right? I’m gonna fuck you and you just have to let me in.”

Sam makes a watery, incomprehensible sound that Dean takes for agreement. Dean kisses his belly, next to where his cock is leaking and neglected, and pulls his fingers out. He bends Sam’s legs up till he’s folded practically in half, slicks more of the icky floral conditioner over his dick, lines himself up, and finally looks at Sam’s face, open like a water-damaged book, covered with tears and snot.

“Hey,” says Dean again, and kisses him, all salt and Sam. Sam draws a shaky breath.

“You going to get on with it any time soon, or are you all talk?” he asks, and his voice is rough, but he’s speaking again, even trying for a smile.

“You love my talk almost as much as you love my dick,” says Dean, and pushes in.

It’s not the best angle, and Dean’s having a hard time bracing himself against the enamel of the tub, but he manages some shallow, easy thrusts, teases Sam’s nipples, gently this time, and Sam’s fully hard again by the time Dean’s balls are starting to tighten and he knows he won’t be able to hold back any more. Dean can’t grab Sam’s shoulders without bringing the towel rack down on their heads, but he tangles one hand in Sam’s hair and the other finds purchase on the edge of the tub. He crushes his mouth to Sam’s and drives into his brother’s body with every bit of leverage he has.

It’s hot and tight, dragging friction only speeding his momentum, and Sam’s making breathy punched out noises and then sharp, high cries, almost yelps, his arm muscles bulging as he tries to strain against the flimsy knots without breaking them. Dean bites down on Sam’s shoulder, drawing blood, kisses him again so Sam can taste it, whispers, “Come on, Sam, come on, not even going to have to touch you, am I, got you there just with my dick and my voice, come on, Sammy, now,” and feels Sam clench and shudder around him, Sam’s dick pulsing where it’s trapped between them, hot come spattering both their bellies. Sam gives a last, wrecked sob. Dean groans and strains so deep in he thinks he may never get out again, orgasm radiating out from the base of his spine in blinding, jerky shocks.

He’s so busy greying out he doesn’t register Sam efficiently freeing his wrists so he can bring down a huge hand and cradle Dean’s head. He lies against Sam’s chest and comes back to himself bit by bit, while Sam’s breathing slows and quiets, while Dean’s dick softens till it slips easily out.

Dean doesn’t want to stand up, even though this has to be the most inconvenient place they’ve ever had sex, even counting the car. He wants to stay here, in an easy, awkward tangle with Sam. Not doing anything now, just kissing. It’s not enough to take something to pieces, something your hands know by heart, if you can’t put it back together. Prison break’s over.

Dean kisses every one of the Sams. Angry Sam and stubborn runaway Sam. Asshole Sam who laughed when some huge beetle monster with jointed antennae flew in the car window one June night and lit on Dean’s hand. Dean almost swerved into a tree. Could’ve been the end of him and Sam both, not to mention the car. And the beetle. But the whole near fiery death was funny to some people, just because Dean maybe took one look at the bug and screamed like a little girl. That Sam. The Sams who still thought crying and being saved and asking for more were things they were allowed. The Sams who hated him sometimes and loved him always, and Dean knows that now. Come back. Welcome home.

Sam wraps his arm around Dean’s shoulder and holds on and lets Dean kiss him.

Eventually Sam breaks the kiss, scoots up a few inches and leans his head against the tile. It’s unbelievable how uncomfortable Dean is, still in the fucking bathtub, knobby bits of Sam sticking into him. Sam looks raw and shaken, but his expression is calm, almost quizzical.

“What was all that about?” he asks.

Dean should make up something snarky and deflective. He should throw the question back to Sam. He doesn’t.

“Wanted you back,” he says. He rubs his thumb over the hollow at the back of Sam’s skull, under the still damp hair. “You check out on me, I gotta go get you back.”

“I wasn’t going to check out on you, Dean, for Christ’s sake. It was slug slime. Not some dramatic close call.”

Irritated Sam. It’s a nice change from Quietly Supportive Sam. That one was really getting old. Dean tugs a little at Sam’s hair.

“You’d better not go getting slimed again on my watch. But that’s not what I meant. It’s like . . .” Dean hesitates. But he’s the one started it, talking about this shit. Might as well go through with it. “It’s been like only some of you came back. Like I’d missed a few, had to go back for them.”

This is when Sam’s supposed to go all emo and make speeches. Instead his lips twitch up. And damned if that isn’t a fucking dimple. Dean’s almost afraid to breathe. He might spook it.

“I see,” says Sam. “So, you went on a quest. Brave Sir Dean. Down the rabbithole. Into the dark underworld. Venturing boldly, armed only with your blade. That’s sweet, Dean. Freudian, but sweet.”

“Hey,” says Dean. “Sometimes my awesome dick is just my awesome dick.”

Sam kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“You’re a conceited asshole, you know that?” he says.

Dean untangles his fingers from Sam’s hair, moves them over his face. Smears the last of the salt water over his cheekbones, so it evaporates.

Sam’s still asleep an hour after Dean wakes up next day. When he finally hauls himself out of bed he looks seedy and red-eyed and awful. He’s clearly in a foul mood. Out of Sorts Sam. Music to Dean’s eyes.

Out of Sorts Sam stumbles blearily to where Dean’s sitting with the laptop and drinks half Dean’s coffee at a gulp.

“You should have woken me up,” he says. “We have to drive all the fucking way to fucking Iowa.”

Dean snatches his coffee back and finishes it.

“Iowa will keep,” he says. “We can stick around here today if you’re feeling fragile, princess.”

“I’m not feeling fragile,” says Sam. He starts rooting around in his duffel, tossing dirty boxers and t-shirts to the floor.

“I mean, it’s cool,” says Dean to his back, “If you need to spend the morning crying into a dainty handkerchief or something. You’re not risking anything worse than a lifetime of humiliation and mockery. You should just take your time and I’ll, like, read a book or something.”

“Fuck you,” says Sam, and marches into the bathroom. The door slams and the shower starts up with an indignant hiss. Dean toasts himself silently with his empty coffee cup. Bitchy Sam.

They’re out of town by ten. Dean and his baby and an empty road and Sam in shotgun. Ordinary Sam in a blue plaid shirt, foam from his girly coffee daubing his upper lip, scowling over his iPad. One of Dean’s favorite Sams. Dean turns up the volume and steps a little harder on the gas.


End file.
